


A Turning In the Past

by Walutahanga



Category: Smallville
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Adoption, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Parent Death, Parent-Child Relationship, Sibling Love, Sibling Rivalry, Siblings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-18 22:51:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4723271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Walutahanga/pseuds/Walutahanga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Family members that Clark could have had, if things had gone differently. Some go better than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brother

“Hey!”

The familiar voice is angry enough to make Whitney’s buddies pause in the act of stuffing Clark into the back of the truck. Clark blinks the tears from his eyes to see Davis storming across the carpark.

“What the fucking fuck are you guys _doing_?”

Whitney’s buddies look uncertain, and even Whitney looks like he’s wishing he could backtrack some of this evening. They have good reason. Even though the star quarterback might usually be as laidback and good-natured as any Kent, Davis has a streak of temper that can be downright nasty if you’re unlucky enough to bring it to the surface.

“We’re just having some fun,” Whitney says, trying to put a good face on it. “Hanging up the scarecrow.”

“Hanging up the–” Clark’s not certain, but he’s pretty sure that’s a flash of red in Davis’ eyes. “That’s my little brother, you dickwad. Put him down.”

“Okay, okay.”

Clark is dumped on the ground, and he scrambles away from the meteor rock pendant still clutched in Whitney’s hand. Davis, who was smart enough to stay out of range, hauls him to his feet.

“I see you around my brother again, I’m gonna acquaint your face with my fist,” he says to Whitney, who flushes an ugly red. 

“Tell him stop staring at my girlfriend.”

“For fuck’s sake, Whitney. He’s _fourteen_. How old are you again?” Davis curls his fingers in Clark’s jacket – even though it’s just for show now and he doesn’t really have a hope in hell of moving Clark if Clark doesn’t want to be moved – and yanks him in the direction of the truck. He shouts over his shoulder: “And if you hang up anyone else tonight, don’t expect me to cover your ass when the Sherriff comes around using words like ‘assault’.”

Clark doesn’t hear more than a mumble of agreement before Davis drags open the passenger door.

“Get in the truck,” he snaps, and Clark scrambles inside. Davis slams the door shut, walks around and gets in the driver’s side. Clark keeps quiet until they’ve pulled out of the parking lot.

“Thanks,” he says a few minutes later. Davis is simmering, and when that happens it’s best to let him ride it out on his own.

Unless of course it’s an Episode with a capital E, in which case it’s usually best to just get the hell out of his way and make sure whatever’s in reach isn’t valuable or irreplaceable.

“You need to be more careful,” Davis says after finally. “At least check to see if they’re carrying meteor rocks before you go starting fights. Jesus Christ, Clark.”

“You sound like Dad. And Whitney started it.”

“I don’t care who started it. You shouldn’t be fighting anyone anyway. You could kill someone.”

“That’s not – can you at least pretend to be on my side?”

“I am on your side. I didn’t let them hang you up, did I.”

No, but Clark is pretty sure Davis wouldn’t have let Whitney hang anyone up, regardless of whose brothers they were. He has Dad’s rigid sense of justice and is even more overbearing about what Clark should and shouldn’t do.

“You don’t know what it’s like.” 

“You’re seriously saying that to me, Clark? Of all people? We came down in the same meteor shower, Clark, I know exactly what it’s like!”

“You’re normal!” The words burst out of Clark’s chest, years of resentment finding an outlent. “You can play football and not have to worry about pushing someone too hard! You can hug people and not worry about crushing them! You actually fit in!”

“You think _I’m_ normal? At least you don’t have to worry about losing control and ripping a guy to shreds for a stupid prank!”

Shocked silence follows this statement. 

“You were going to kill Whitney?” Clark says softly. 

“I wanted to rip out his spine. If he hadn’t been carrying meteor rock, I might have.” Davis is taking deep, even breaths. “Just stay away from Whitney, okay Clark? He’s a dick but he doesn’t deserve to die for it.”

“Okay,” Clark says quietly. He reaches out and very carefully lays a hand over Davis’ ribs, just under his heart, the way Mum and Dad would when Davis was working up to an Episode. He can feel Davis relax under the contact, but checks anyway: “This okay?”

“Yeah.” Davis takes his hand off the steering wheel and lays it over Clark’s where they can both feel his heartbeat slowing down. “Yeah, that’s okay.”

Mum doesn’t like the way they fight; she finds it upsetting how quickly they can work from a minor disagreement to screaming at each other. Clark figures it’s because she doesn’t have any siblings so she doesn’t get it. No matter what happens, no matter how badly they fight, Clark will always have Davis’ back and Davis will always have his.

Clark doesn’t know who he’d be if that ever changed. 


	2. Sister

The whoosh of displaced air announced Kara’s arrival, even before the front door swung open.

“Good morning, Kara,” Martha said, not looking up from trying to feed Clark his breakfast. Four year olds are so messy. “Did you find your crystal?”

“Morning, Martha.” Kara plopped down at the table. “No, and I’ve looked _everywhere_.”

“That’s a shame.” Martha looked up and smiled. Kara’s hair was a mess. She loved to fly, but her hair suffered for it. “You should have a shower before you go to school. Comb your hair.”

“Sure thing.” Kara had picked up Earth slang very quickly. She smiled at Clark and said something in that complicated, lovely language that made him laugh.

The language makes Martha uneasy because she’s not sure what Kara’s saying to Clark. Nor does she like this ‘Kryptonian’ name that Kara calls him. She’s tried to learn the language, just so she could have some idea of what they’re saying, but it proved far too difficult. It has twenty-seven different tenses, some of them relating not just to time and place but also dimensions. Kara tells her dismissively that no human could ever truly comprehend it, and Martha believes her. 

There’s a bang of the front door as Jonathon walks in.

“We’re going to need to replace the whole tractor engine. Damn thing’s just about fallen apart – Ah, Kara. You’re back.”

“Hi Jonathon.” Kara smiles absently as she reaches for the toast.

Martha hopes Jonathon isn’t going to say something that will make Kara storm off again. Not only can they not afford to antagonise her, seeing as they’ve no way of stopping her if she decides to carry Clark off, but underneath all the prickly alienness Martha can sense a young girl desperate for family.

“Kara…” Jonathon is frowning at Kara. “Wouldn’t you prefer to be wearing something else?”

“I want to fit in. I saw human teenagers wearing this at the mall.”

“Yes, but it’s a little…” Jonathon searches for a word. “…skimpy.” 

Kara frowns.

“I don’t understand. I thought I was attractive by human standards.”

That makes Martha laugh.

“He’s just being protective,” she tells Kara. “It’s what human fathers do.”

Kara’s brow clears.

“Oh. That’s alright. My kryptonian father didn’t like what I wore either.”

Martha laughs, and after a moment, so does Jonathon. Kara looks puzzled and suspicious.

“Don’t worry,” Martha tells her, patting her hand reassuringly. “We’re not laughing at you. Just at ourselves.”

Kara’s smile is cautious, but lovely to see.

“Tell you what,” Jonathon says. “If you put on a pair of jeans, I’ll let you help with fixing the tractor.”

“I don’t understand how that’s a reward.”

“It is for me. It’ll save me getting the jack out.”

Kara sighed like every teenager since the dawn of time.

“ _Fine_. I’ll help with the stupid tractor.”

“Thank you, Kara.”

As the four of them eat breakfast around the table, Kara giggling at the food Clark gets on his face, Martha thinks on how lucky she and Jonathon are. Most couples looking to adopt don’t get one child, let alone two. 


	3. Wife

“Do you regret it?” Vala asks Kal this question ten years after leaving Earth.

They are standing at the top of the valley, looking down at the Kandorian settlement. Numbers have grown slowly since Rao’s book brought them here; Kryptonians are slow to conceive and bear children. But already there are a few babies on hip, some children playing some chasing game between the buildings. The Kryptonian race will survive, against the odds. 

Kal doesn’t immediately answer.

“There are things I miss about Earth,” he says finally. “The people mostly. My friends, my mother…”

“Lois,” Vala says. She had always known she was second-place in Kal’s heart, that his love belonged to a woman on a world he’d had to give up to protect. She is matter-of-fact about it; Kal holds second-place in her heart as well, her priority first and always Krypton. 

“Not as much as I used to,” Kal says. “Time heals all wounds.”

Vala thinks of Faora, dead with her child still in her, of Krypton gone in the blink of an eye, of Zod’s betrayal still fresh and raw years on.

“Not all,” she says. “But you haven’t answered my question. Do you regret ascending with us?”

Kal turns to look at her, seeming to sense this isn’t a question asked on a whim.

“At the time I did,” he says. “I guess you remember that as well as I do.”

Vala nods; Kal’s first few months had been difficult for him, and not just because of the injuries Zod had inflicted on him before they both ascended. He had floundered in purely Kryptonian culture, stumbling on etiquette the others took for granted. Vala had taken it on herself to guide and educate him, as a repayment of sorts for bringing Faora’s murderer to justice. Eventually, perhaps inevitably, companionship had become something else.

“Now?” Kal says. “After the years I’ve spent here, the things we’ve accomplished, the friends I’ve made, the wife I found –” His hand finds hers “– I find it hard to think of it as anything except worth the sacrifice.”

Vala’s uncertainties ease. She had hoped, but she’d had to know for certain.

“Why are you asking this now?” He asks.

“I have some news.” She lifts Kal’s hand and presses it to her belly. He looks puzzled for a moment, then disbelieving joy dawns on his face.

“We’re–?”

“Yes.”

“You and me–”

“Yes.”

He sinks to his knees, hands resting on her hips as he kisses her stomach through her clothes.

“I never thought I’d have this,” he says. “Thank you, Vala. Thank you.”

She threads her fingers affectionately through his hair. They may not be each other’s soulmates, but they are a comfortable fit nonetheless. She has no regrets. 


	4. Father

Dax-Ur had nearly left it alone; even with the blue kryptonite, going anywhere near a meteor shower was a bad idea. But then he’d read in the news, of a boy found abandoned in a cornfield. Apparently no one had any idea who he was; the only people nearby were a young couple killed when a meteor hit their car, but they’d apparently been childless.

The picture of the boy in the paper was what caught Dax’s attention; pale skinned, with dark hair and the classic bone structure bred for in the upper Houses. The humans might not know what they had, but Dax knew the look of a high toned Kryptonian bloodline.

A Kryptonian child on Earth could only mean one thing; that Krypton had finally failed, just as the naysayers had predicted, and some desperate family had attempted to send one of their own to safety. And desperate they must have been to choose Earth over a more civilized world. Dax had come here of his own prerogative; he’d never have sent a child here alone.

He takes off the blue kryptonite and runs all the way to Smallville. There he blends in with the rescue efforts, listening out for news of the boy. He locates him quickly enough at the local police station.

“Some Feds are coming in from Metropolis to pick him up,” he hears one farmer tell another.

“Why the Feds?”

“Don’t know – Sherriff said something about missing persons.”

Dax has heard enough; he knows why FBI agents would come for the boy, and it’s not because he’s been abandoned. It’s because he’s too young to understand how or why he should hide what he is, and it’s caught the attention of someone in authority.

It’s a simple matter to speed into the police station, past the desk, out back to where the boy has been locked in a room with a few toys. He’s sleeping on a cot, and he wakes up as Dax disables the security camera. He smiles up at Dax, utterly trusting, and Dax scoops him up, resting him on his hip.

“Hello, boy,” he says, using the language of his birth. One he hasn’t used in many long years. The boy’s smile widens at the familiar cadence. “You are very lucky that I found you. The humans’ capacity for cruelty is as vast as their capacity for kindness.”

He hears voices outside and approaching footsteps, and speeds away, leaving an empty room for men in black suits to alarm and puzzle over.

At home, he stops and sets the boy down on the kitchen table. Grace is not home yet; he is glad that he has a little time to think over what he’s going to tell her. She knows what he is, but accepting your husband is an alien is one thing; adopting an alien child with the whole host of problems and issues that come with it is something else.

“Are you hungry?” He asks the boy in English. The boy looks puzzled and Dax repeats it in Kryptonian. The boy’s face lights up in comprehension and he nods.

“Hungry!” He says in Kryptonian. Dax makes him a sandwich and watches as he eats. The boy will need to learn English and quickly to avoid attention. Dax will also need to find some more blue kryptonite, to protect the boy from himself. Perhaps when he is older he may make different choices, but for now it’s the safest disguise he could possibly have.

Dax rests his hand gently on the boy’s soft dark hair and wonders what House had had the foresight to arrange his escape. Someone high up without a doubt, non-traditional and extremely wealthy. He wished he knew more about Kryptonian politics so he might make a better guess.

Then he decides it doesn’t matter.

“What is your name, boy?” He asks. The child doesn’t seem to understand the question, even when Dax tries asking it a number of different ways. Dax finally gives up and says firmly:

“Rex.” Rex is Latin for royalty, after all, and this boy is nothing if not well-born. “Welcome to the House of Ur. You will make my strength your own. You will see my life through your eyes, as your life will be seen through mine.”

His new son smiles up at him, and Dax feels the first warmth of something that will become love. He finishes more quietly, almost a prayer.

“The son becomes the father, and the father becomes the son.”


	5. Mother

Faora’s stride faltered and stopped on the threshold of the House of El. She and her troops had approached with such fervour, eager to arrest Jor-El for treason – too long had she and her husband waited for revenge on their old ‘friend’!

But, looking at the blood smeared across the threshold, she suspected that someone else had beat them here.

“Weapons ready,” she told Vala. “Be ready for anything.”

They moved deeper into the house, past the greeting hall, following the bloody footsteps into the private quarters. Faora heard a child crying in the distance and ran faster.

She stopped at the communal room, appalled. Jor-El’s bloodied body lay flung back on a sofa. From the look of him, he’d been stabbed many times in a frenzy. At his feet lay the body of a teenager, her throat cut, eyes staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. A young boy, still a toddler, sat in a puddle of his family’s blood, wailing.

A man knelt in the middle of the room, cradling a blonde woman’s bloody body in his arms. He ignored the screaming baby, eyes only for the woman, his hands and sleeves soaked in red.

“Zor-El,” Faora breathed. “What have you done?”

Vala reached Faora’s side and drew a sharp, horrified breath. At Faora’s signal, she went to check the pulses of Jor-El and his niece. She shook her head.

Zor-El ignored them still; Faora did not think he even knew they were here until he suddenly spoke.

“She should have been mine.”

His deep commanding voice was a familiar one; how many times had Faora heard it raised in the council, doggedly arguing one point or another? He had always seemed the more rational of the two brothers, if boringly pedantic; now she heard that intensity as insanity and shivered. 

He stroked back Lara’s hair from her lifeless face with blood-stained fingers.

“I came here to offer her shelter. I knew you would be here soon to arrest Jor-El and I came to offer sanctuary. She did not have to share his shame; my reputation could have protected her if she would just give him up and marry me.”

Of the child, he said nothing. It was as if the screaming child did not exist for him. Faora wanted to pick the boy up, but preferred to have her arms free if Zor-El tried anything.

“She said no,” she guessed.

“She all but spat in my face.” Zor-El’s hand clenched into a fist. “All I wanted to do was love and cherish her. She should have been _mine_.”

“Is that when you killed her?”

“I did not mean to. I was angry – it was all Jor-El’s fault. If he hadn’t stolen her from me in the first place. I’m glad I killed him.”

Faora looks down at the girl, who she’d seen vaguely about the city over the years. Never spoken to, of course – the divide between their houses was too great – but her face was well known. A lovely girl that Zod had hopes of recruiting.

“And your daughter, Kara?” She said. “Why did she have to die?”

“She should not have been here. She didn’t understand, she tried to stop me – it was all Jor-El’s fault.” Zor-El went back to staring at Lara, his daughter forgotten. “She should have been mine,” he repeated.

Vala met Faora’s eyes questioningly. Faora nodded.

“Zor-El, you are under arrest for the murder of your brother, your sister-in-law, and your daughter. You will be tried and punished accordingly.”

Zor-El looked up, affronted.

“What do you care? Zod hated my brother. I did him a favour.”

“Perhaps.” Faora watched Vala drew her weapon and stunned Zor-El. “But he never wanted him dead.”

Vala signalled the troops to drag Zor-El out. Faora suspected that Zor-El would promptly find himself in the Phantom Zone, once Zod heard what he had done. Zod’s hatred for Jor-El was only matched by his love for him. He would be furious that Zor-El had stolen his chance for victory.

The baby was still crying and Faora holstered her weapon. She knelt down and checked him for injuries; he did not seem to be hurt, just traumatised. She picked him up, arms automatically shifting to hold the weight of a child after so many years empty. It made her breath catch, old pains flaring. 

Vala came over and handed her a towel.

“Is he alright?”

“Just frightened. Zor-El must have left him sitting in that blood for ages.” Faora cleaned the boy as best she can, ignoring the red smeared on her armour. There had been worse over the years. “It’s lucky he didn’t kill him.”

“I don’t think Zor-El saw him or his cousin as relevant. He only killed Kara when she got in his way.” Vala shook her head. “Rao’s Light, I knew Zor-El was in love with Lara, but I never thought he’d go this far.”

“Neither did I.” Now all the sneers made at Zor-El’s expense didn't seem so funny anymore. Would people have been so quick to laugh if they’d known what seed of violence was brewing inside him?

The boy in Faora’s arms whimpered, curling closer to her. She began to rock him automatically.

“What is his name?” She asked. 

“Kal-El, I think. They went traditional.”

“Kal,” Faora repeated, tasting the name on her tongue. A good, solid name if a trifle dull.

“Sister,” Vala said warily. “What are you thinking?”

Faora looked down at the boy, who looked back at her with blue eyes. Zod’s eyes were also blue.

“That the House of Zod has long been without an heir.”

“Sister, no.” Vala was horrified. “Zod despised Jor-El. He will never accept his son into his House. It will never happen.”

“You under-estimate how much Zod wishes to win out over Jor-El.” The only living son of his mortal enemy, who could be raised to love and revere Zod alone; that was the kind of vengeance her husband would understand.

Faora pressed a kiss to the boy’s forehead.

“I have such high hopes for you, my little Kal-Zod.” 

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the lyrics of Lost Chances by David Brock and Michael Moorcock.


End file.
